


not in the stars to hold our destinies

by revolutionaryfury



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: "Little Poet" is the best nickname, Courfeyrac is suave, First Kiss, Jehan is a sucker for sad movies, M/M, Moulin Rouge is mentioned a lot, like...a lot, oh god what am i DOING, that's kinda what the story is about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionaryfury/pseuds/revolutionaryfury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jehan cries a lot at Moulin Rouge, really likes to write quotes on his arms, and Courfeyrac is just...awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not in the stars to hold our destinies

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I understand that this was actually a part of my previous story "A Bunch of Stories Where Les Mis Characters are Shipped." It's also posted on FF. But, I must say, I've retitled it on FF, and renamed all of the chapters. So I'm posting them again here as separate stories.

Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire was in love with love. Everything about love appealed to him, from young couples holding hands and offering each other chaste kisses, to the romantic poems he read on a daily basis. There was nothing better than love, and the soft-spoken poet was completely adamant about that. Daily, he would grab a Sharpie and fill his hands, arms, and stomach with quotes and little ideas. Today, his stomach read: "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return." He had watched that film about forbidden love between a penniless writer and a sparkling courtesan – "Moulin Rouge" – yesterday and quite enjoyed it. It had taken the poet about ten straight minutes to write the quote, from wont of space and writing it upside down. Some of the letters were crooked, but it was legible enough.

Jehan pulled his shirt down, and tapped his closed lips with the Sharpie. He leaned against the table he was sitting at and pondered for a few moments – on life, on quotes, and of course, on love. He was thinking about the film he'd saw, and how it had upset him greatly. The plot was simple enough: a penniless boy named Christian came from England to Paris to become a writer, and ended up going to this club called The Moulin Rouge. The girls there were all prostitutes, fancy and trashy at the same time. Christian was accidentally set up with a meeting with the most famous prostitute, a ginger-haired beauty named Satine. They ended up falling in love, tangling with the jealous Duke and trying to keep their love a secret. The underlying plot was that Satine was consumptive. Well, she died in Christian's arms as he wept.

Jehan had been wrapped in an oversize sweater in his and Cosette's shared apartment, sobbing his eyes out while she consoled him, murmuring, "It's just a movie, sweetie."

The movie was campy and silly, but it was also quite dark and tragic. It had left a lasting impression on the poet, and it was disturbing him slightly how much it had affected him. He held out his arm and scribbled, "Love is like oxygen!" He grinned as he did so, imagining Christian goofily protesting and pleading with Satine to fall in love with him.

Suddenly, he heard a jingle as the door of the Café Musain gently opened. He didn't look up though; he was too busy scrawling "Love is a many splendored thing!" on his opposite arm. He felt a pair of hands on his shoulders and repressed a smile.

"Well, well, my little poet. What have we here?" It was Courfeyrac, lanky arms and tousled black curls being his defining characteristics. He snatched a chair from the table and dragged it behind Jehan, plopping down and unbraiding the poet's thick tawny hair. A few flower petals fluttered to the ground, and Courf made sure to collect them.

"What are you doing?" Jehan asked quietly, blushing. He may have been in love with love, but he was also very in love with a certain inky-haired boy that happened to be sitting less than four inches away.

"Well, I thought it was high time I learned to braid," he said reasonably. "Who better to use than my favorite little poet?"

Jehan blushed even redder. "Th-thanks," he mumbled.

Courf just hummed in acknowledgement and attempted to braid Jehan's long hair, stopping periodically to ask for instructions. After about five minutes, he finally got it all figured out and began tucking the flower petals back into Jehan's hair and twisting the whole flowers within the tresses. "Dieu, your hair is beautiful, little poet," Courf murmured.

Jehan mumbled a thank you and, to distract himself, grabbed the Sharpie and rolled up the leg of his floral print skinny jeans to write: "The French are glad to die for love..." on his ankle. He smiled wryly at the quote and then frowned, thinking about how true it was. If Courf would love him, he would gladly die for love then.

Courf leaned over. "Watcha writing, little poet?"

Jehan pulled down the leg of his pants very quickly. "Nothing, nothing," he assured his friend. "Nothing at all. Just some quotes. Meaningless quotes. From "Moulin Rouge," you know?" He was babbling, and he knew it.

Courf grinned. "I think I saw that movie once with my cousin. She forced me to watch it, now that I remember." He then went off on a twenty minute tangent about his cousin – a girl named Marie – and how she was a sucker for romantic films. She'd dragged Courf to the cinema to see the movie for a secret midnight showing when they were ten. She had sobbed at the ending, and he'd fallen asleep. Jehan smiled, not really listening and glad Courf had forgotten about his silly quotes. Dieu, why did he always have to do stuff like this? Courf probably knew Jehan was head over heels for him, and was just hanging out with him to taunt him. He went white at that thought. Courf probably hated him. Yes, that was it. He was waiting for the exact moment when Jehan was at his most vulnerable and then –

"Prouvaire?"

The question broke him from his angsty thoughts for a moment. "Yes?"

"I said your name literally ten times just now, Jehan. What gives? Were you even listening to me?"

Jehan considered lying, the remembered he was a terrible liar. He blushed and blinked about a million times a minute whenever he attempted even a little white lie. "Um…no. Not really. Sorry. Something about your cousin Maria-"

"Marie."

"Marie. Sorry. Something about your cousin Marie dragging you to see the movie when you were twelve."

"Ten."

"Sorry," Jehan muttered.

Courf dragged the chair back to the table so he was next to Jehan. "Little poet, what's wrong? This has been happening lately whenever I see you. You get all fidgety and quiet and don't listen to a word I say. You're caught up in your own little world. But even more so than usual." He gave a quick, fond smile, and then frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Jehan blanched. Oh…Dieu. "Um… nothing, Courf. Nothing. Sorry. I just didn't get much sleep last night and I'm tired. Yes, that's…that's it. Unh…yeah," he babbled out quickly, doing his I'm-obviously-lying-blush-and-blink-a-bunch move.

"Jean Prouvaire, I know when you're lying," Courfeyrac said coldly. "Something is bothering you. Tell me."

"Nothing," Jehan stressed, thinking: MonDieuMonDieuMonDieuMonDieu. This is the moment I've dreaded for years. I've backed myself into a corner. I'm doing to have to admit that I love him and-

"TELL ME, JEHAN!" Courf cried, throwing his hands in the air.

Jehan whimpered and lifted his long sleeves, showing his quotes: "Love is like oxygen!" and "Love is a many splendored thing!"

Courf's brow wrinkled. "What? What does that mean? That's…that's from the movie, right?"

Jehan nodded and lifted his pink sweater, revealing the statement: "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return."

Courf's eyes filled with confusion. "Being loved is good," he allowed. "Someone loving you back is better."

Jehan showed the final quote: "The French are glad to die for love." He took a deep, deep breath. In a voice that was much more even than he would have ever imagined, he said: "Robin de Courfeyrac…I love you. I have been in love with you since the day we met when we were eleven. You're charming and handsome and I love everything about you, even the fact that you bring a different girl home every night. I love your hair and I love your eyes, but most of all I just love you. Every single poem I write is about you, every single quote I scribble is about you, every single thought I have is about you. You're my everything, and I just want you to know that. I know you love girls, and I know I'll never be able to live up to your expectations, and I understand if you don't want to talk to me anymore. But whenever I'm around you, I just feel so excited and uncomfortable and awkward all at the same time…I love you."

Courfeyrac eyes were wide. He gulped and faced Jehan, looking into his beautiful eyes. "Jean Prouvaire," he said quietly, "I love you too. I didn't want to admit it at first, but when I was fifteen, I finally realized it. I thought you were too preoccupied with your poetry to notice anything good about me. I mean, I drink too much, I smoke, I can't commit to a relationship. You're sweet and innocent and cute and all I have is charm. You're so self-confident, and sometimes I don't even know why I'm alive. You're so stable and I'm just…not. I'm not good enough for you."

Jehan took Courf's hand and squeezed it, saying seriously, "Don't you dare say that again."

Courf kissed Jehan, and the poet wasn't seeing quotes this time, but stars.


End file.
